In Wildness is the preservation of the world
—Henry D. Thoreau
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From the Editors
Ever since our hominid ancestors first stood erect, we’ve spent most of the day walking around—hunting and gathering, evading predators, exploring, migrating, putting one foot in front of another day in and day out. Since then walking has taken many forms, strolling, marching, hiking, the purposeful stride, the flâneur’s idle amble, the runner’s explosive sprint, the devoted mindfulness of the pilgrim.
Thoreau took daily walks as a part of living deliberately. “I have met with but one or two persons in the course of my life,” he wrote, “who understood the art of Walking, that is, of taking walks—who had a genius, so to speak, for sauntering, which word is beautifully derived ‘from idle people who roved about the country, in the Middle Ages, and asked charity, under the pretense of going “à la Sainte Terre,” to the Holy Land, till the children exclaimed, ‘There goes a Sainte-Terrer,’a Saunterer, a Holy-Lander.” And a few lines later he declared, “I cannot preserve my health and spirits unless I spend four hours a day at least—and it is commonly more than that, sauntering through the woods and over the fields, absolutely free from all worldly engagements.”
Confined to our homes by the pandemic, many of us found relief in getting outdoors where we could avoid contagion while reconnecting with friends, neighborhoods, and local wilds. It’s not too late to imitate Thoreau. In this issue we present stories and meditations on the art, pleasures, and revelations of walking in places as diverse as Spring Grove Cemetery, Greek villages, the lakes of Indiana, and the mountains of California. Consider it an invitation to Thoreau’s gentle art.
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—Laetoli footprints, Tanzania, c. 3.66 million years BP
In this Issue
Speaking of Faith: John Tallmadge walks the John Muir Trail; Deb Carle walks off the pandemic
Know Your Neighbors: Rebekah Nolt slows down; Dave Simon discovers Spring Grove; Julie Malkin checks out local labyrinths;
Walking the Talk: Betty Porter walks the Camino de Santiago de Compostela; Pam Bach fixes her feet; Rick Sowash goes on a musical walk in the woods
What’s next
Your faithful editors will be taking a late summer break. After publishing twelve issues during this pandemic year, we need to pause and take stock. We hope to resume in October. But in the meantime, we need to hear from you. Should we continue to publish, and with what frequency? Monthly, bimonthly, or quarterly? What do you think of our features, sections, and themes? How can we improve? Please email your comments by Labor Day to Julie Malkin ([email protected]) and John Tallmadge {[email protected] ).
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John Tallmadge writes:
After getting out of the Army in 1973, a friend and I hiked the John Muir Trail from Mt. Whitney to Yosemite Valley in the High Sierras of California. We imagined it as a cleansing rite of passage back into civilization. But five weeks of walking at altitude with full packs, sleeping under the stars, drinking from streams, and doing without books, cars, TV, or telephones changed how we saw and thought about the world. I realized later that we had gone through five stages of mental transformation not unlike those experienced by pilgrims and seekers of every age.
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In backpacking you must carry everything. Colin Fletcher, author of The Complete Walker, describes it as taking your “house on your back.” Thoreau urged his readers to “Simplify, simplify!” and for us this meant counting calories and stripping to the essentials. Preparation became a practice of raising consciousness to the point of living deliberately, a kind of necessary mindfulness.
On the first week out we entered a second phase, when the body rebelled against the disruption of its comforts and routines. Our legs hurt, our feet blistered. I began fantasizing about coming home with dramatic slides and stories; I wished the trip over before it had hardly begun. All this amounted to a kind of withdrawal as we detoxed from civilization.
But gradually, we became more attuned to the world. We had to keep an eye on the weather; we had to read the landscape to locate good camp spots; we began to notice the behavior of birds and animals. The ascetic process of detox and emptying made us exquisitely open and receptive. Time fell away from the sandgrain precision of watches into the great diurnal heartbeat of sun and moon. At night we could look up from our sleeping bags and feel the earth holding us tight against the vertiginous emptiness of deep space.
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After this phase of awakening came moments of vivid encounter that the philosopher Martin Buber described as I-Thou experiences, when you meet an animal, a tree, or even a rock in the overwhelming clarity of their unique personhood, not through the dark glass of theology or language, but face to face. Buber explains that “the Thou encounters us by grace; it cannot be found by seeking.” Late one day, I came into camp tired to the bone and just sat down on a rock; a few moments later I looked up into the face of a pine marten. Another time I went looking for stones to make a fireplace. The glacier had left them strewn on a polished granite pavement when it melted away. As I reached for them, it occurred to me that they had occupied that place for a very long time. When Jesus walked, they had already been resting for ten thousand years. So I left them alone and built our fire in the sand. |
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Buber says that I-Thou encounters form the foundation of our spiritual life. They are unforgettable, but never last; our awareness soon collapses into the familiar realm of subject/object, means-and-ends thinking that Buber calls I-It. But, though we cannot conjure or compel grace, we can make ourselves receptive through mindful devotion and practice. For those who, like myself, lack discipline, backpacking offers a kind of spiritual boot camp. I like to think of it as the poor man’s Zen.
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Returning marked the final phase. It was almost as hard as setting out, but we were stronger and more experienced now, more confident, more attentive, more compassionate toward those new to the trail. We belonged to two worlds, human and wild. And we had a true story to link them. |
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Finding Grace in Spring Grove
Deb Carle writes:
Last fall, I was walking at Spring Grove Cemetery with David Simon. It’s one of my favorite places, and walking has been my best coping skill during the pandemic. But that day, as we walked, my legs suddenly started going faster and faster. My gait became unsteady and my feet were floppy. So I turned into the grass, brushed past a monument, and fell over. We had no idea what was going on with my body. Running into a monument wasn’t a covid symptom but of course that was my first thought.
Then a young man who had been walking ahead of us with his family appeared and said that he thought I was dehydrated. When he offered me his own half drunk bottle of water, I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t want to drink from his bottle, but drinking water seemed a good idea. Was I risking covid, maybe? I couldn’t know but I needed to do something. So I drank the water and very quickly could sit up, stand up, and start to walk again. So I was better although covid thoughts lingered in my brain for several days.
I was so glad we had been at Spring Grove. I find it calming and peaceful to walk there, especially with a friend. The monuments, the statues, the angels, the history, the flowers, and the water all comfort me. I find God’s presence in this place. That day I was pretty shook. And as Dave and I walked, we both calmed as I regained control of my legs. I was glad we had Spring Grove’s gifts to help calm us. I was lucky and I knew it! Thanks be to God!
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No Need for Speed
Rebekah Nolt writes:
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I had never been a walker. Run 7 miles? Yes. Bike 50 miles? Absolutely. But take a leisurely stroll around the neighborhood or through the park, no way. I have places to go, people to see, and emails that never stop coming. Walking had just never piqued my interest amidst the busyness of life and the fast-paced rhythm I liked to keep. As long as I am moving, I figured, the demands of life couldn’t catch me. Obviously, this is distorted thinking. But it flourishes in a culture that equates worth with productivity and commodifies even simple pleasures and hobbies.
If one good thing came out of the pandemic with its forced slowdown, it was that I picked up walking. When I adopted a rescue dog, my no-walking life suddenly turned into two long walks a day. At first it felt painful to stroll so slowly down the sidewalks as my dog sniffed every leaf. However, over time this routine transformed the way I interact with the world. I now notice things I never would have without the steady slow rhythm of a walk around the block.
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It’s funny—well, actually a bit sad—that we live in a society where knowing our neighbors isn’t a high priority . How many of us live in cities or apartment buildings and don’t know the names or faces of those closest to us? This question makes me think of the road to Emmaus after the resurrection and how even those closest to Jesus were unable to recognize him at first. Eventually they did, after they slowed down and spent some time with him on the road, but it didn’t happen in a hurry.
Since I’ve adopted my dog and started walking, I’ve met so many wonderful people. I know the people on my block and the folks who frequent the same park. I have had so many wonderful conversations that would not have been possible if had been zipping by on my bike. I wonder what friends or connections are waiting for all of us, if we take a moment to slow down and stroll.
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Walking and Gratitude
Dave Simon writes:
I grew up in a small Indiana town in a farming area dotted with stands of trees and interlaced with dusty back roads and small creeks. If I had taken time to notice, I might have seen that It was beautiful in its way, but to me it was boring, just the backdrop to the families and friends that made up my universe. In that world work was a high priority. Walking was done out of necessity and no one I knew walked for pleasure.
The natural world did get my attention when it was front and center, especially on trips with my grandparents and on summer vacations at “The Lake”. Two trips that stand out include the Smokey Mountains and Yellowstone. It was impossible not to be overwhelmed by the dramatic mountains, endless vistas, and Old Faithful!
To Hoosiers “The Lake” is any of a hundred lakes in northern Indiana. Ours was Big Chapman. I loved fishing and swimming so much that years later I introduced my daughters to the joys of lake life at a cottage on McClish Lake (known to us as No Fish McClish). But the trips and vacations were the exception. Walking didn’t “accomplish” anything. Why engage in something that has no utility?
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It wasn’t until 2017 after I retired that I realized walking for its own sake could be satisfying. It started with one-mile walks around my neighborhood here in Bond Hill. I noticed details of homes and yards, met neighbors and talked about the dogs they were walking. But there was more. As my walking expanded to new areas, I was becoming a better observer of my surroundings and a better friend to my walking companions. Maybe this walking thing had some value after all.
Soon I was sampling some of the many walking opportunities Cincinnati offers. There is the Little Miami Trail, the loop around Lunken Airport, Ault Park, and my go-to place, Spring Grove Cemetery. I discovered that a “walk” is not one thing or experience. There is something for every ability and mood – the Cincinnati Nature Center or Shawnee Lookout for cardio challenges, Clifton Gorge for surprising, breath-taking views, the new Wasson Trail for relaxing strolls. It can also include walks through lovely old neighborhoods, along Smale Park by the Ohio River or in the heart of downtown. A walk can be long or short. My typical walk is three to five miles, but I have challenged myself to longer treks. The most memorable was 15 miles with my friend Madeleine in the 2019 Flying Pig. What fun!
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Each walk starts with a rush of fresh air as I leave my climate controlled home. In that first step I am grateful that, at age 73, I am healthy enough to be out, putting one foot in front of the other. I never fail to notice the blue of the sky and the intense green of the trees. It’s always the same yet always different. Walking alone gives me time to reflect and put my few problems into perspective. Walking with friends is even better. It is a comfortable way to make friends out of acquaintances and to deepen long-time friendships. It gives space for sharing stories, laughing and for soaking up the pure joy for all we have been given. Although each walk is distinct, it ends with the same feeling of satisfaction and peace, and with each walk my gratitude increases.
Sometimes I can be a little slow. It took me a long time to catch on to the pleasures of walking. I plan to continue for years to come.
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Lured by Labyrinths
Julie Malkin writes:
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I’ve been curious about labyrinths since hearing about them at a church I attended in the 1990s. Once introduced, I seemed to encounter them everywhere. But, until last week, I had not actually walked one. I thought it might require more focus and attention than I normally have.
But a labyrinth is not a maze. A labyrinth is unicursal, with a single path leading to the center, whereas a maze is multicursal, a branching puzzle with choices of path and direction. Walking a labyrinth engages the right side of your brain, while solving a maze draws on the left. Etched on a rock by the entry to the Smale Park labyrinth are these words,
You enter a maze to get lost and a labyrinth to find yourself.
Labyrinth designs are archetypal and found in many cultures. Some date back over 4000 years. Heroditus, in the 5th century BCE, described a large labyrinth in Egypt that dated to 19th century BCE. The Hopi symbol, Tapuat (mother earth), and the Chinese symbol, shou (longevity), are labyrinthine. Then, of course, there is the mythological labyrinth at Crete and the famous course on the floor of Chartres Cathedral.
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The “classic” (Chartres) labyrinth path loops back and forth in 7-12 concentric circuits, of uniform width, leading to a center. Entry into the design may be right or left; it may be square or circular. A number of variations have evolved including the Indian chakra-vyuha (a 4 fold pattern with a spiral in the center) and the Baltic Wheel (double loop at the center with separate entry and exit points).
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Christians have walked labyrinths to draw closer to God for almost 1700 years. One of the earliest was laid in 324 CE at the Basilica of Repartus in Algeria. The better known Chartres Cathedral labyrinth was constructed in the 12th century CE for contemplation, penitence (by walking on one’s knees!) and pilgrimage (replacing a journey to Jerusalem). In recent years there has been renewed interest in labyrinths among people from varying religious perspectives who seek spiritual growth, peace, personal insight, stress reduction and healing.
For my first journey into a labyrinth, I chose one located beside the chapel at the Transfiguration Spiritual Center in Glendale. It was constructed in 2015 as an Eagle Scout project and is surrounded by beautiful formal gardens. The setting is quiet and peaceful. Although it invites contemplation, walking the labyrinth proved difficult. It is very small with narrow paths and tight turns. I was challenged to stay on the path and occasionally lost my balance in the turns. I couldn’t relax.
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Disappointed with this first experience, I decided to try a different location. I headed to the Centennial Barn on Compton Rd in Hartwell. This labyrinth, based on the Chartres design, is fifty feet in diameter and constructed of stone and gravel. I felt more comfortable walking this larger construction. Unfortunately, it needs some maintenance; tall weeds had poked up between the stones and recent heavy rains had washed away some gravel. Again, I was disappointed, too distracted by road noise and the condition of the labyrinth to feel peaceful or centered. So I tried another of Cincinnati’s labyrinths.
Among the many wonderful gardens and paths at Smale Riverfront Park in Cincinnati, is a beautiful, well-maintained labyrinth. Constructed of granite and based on the Chartres design, it winds a quarter mile into the center, giving the walker plenty of time to contemplate. The path is wide, with gentle turns. As I entered, my impulse was to look forward; how will this path lead me to the center? But the course is so long with so many turns, that I could couldn’t trace the path with my eyes and walk at the same time. And then I experienced my “labyrinth moment”. “Just stay on the path, don’t worry about the destination”.
For more information, including a world-wide listing of labyrinths, check out these resources:
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Walking, Real and Virtual
Betty Porter writes:
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I love to walk. It has been an important part of my life for as long as I can remember.
Walking for almost every one begins early and lasts into old age. My personal journey has evolved over the years. In childhood it was walks in the woods near my house on Reeds Lake. In the busy years of work and family, walking was a way to find time to think, plan, organize, and clear my head. Gradually, walking became my major exercise – move while thinking - or multi-tasking as a way of life!
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Before long, walking became running until my doctor reminded me of possible future knee problems. So – with relief – I went back to walking and hiking at home or away – including Sleeping Bear Dunes, Yellowstone, Grand Canyon, Outer banks, and climbs up and down Mt. Hood and Mt. Baker.
I often listened to books on tape and podcasts. But this habit invited distractions, wandering directions, and too much traffic. I would lose the plot, get the characters mixed up, and confuse the setting with my actual location. So, I began to give more attention to the natural world around me. The blue and green of summer, the orange, yellow, and red of fall, the white of a winter wonderland. But mostly the purity of silence.
Walking for a cause has also been a part of my experience, and that includes fundraising: Flying Pig, Susan G. Komen Breast Cancer, Muscular Dystrophy, and others.
After traveling to Voices of Sophia, Ghost Ranch, and New Harmony I started to combine walking with a meditation practice. A maze, a labyrinth, guidance from Thich Nhat Hanh – all contributed to walking as a spiritual practice. This aspect of walking still remains very important to me.
And now, in our present days of COVID, distancing, and masks, virtual walking has taken center stage. The idea is to walk famous trails all over the world without leaving your own neighborhood. The locales, architecture, and people become familiar in my mind. I walk the miles and record them on my cell phone app which then informs me where I am on the trail I have selected and what is around me. This is a way for anyone to become a sophisticated and cosmopolitan traveler.
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I just completed the 480-mile pilgrimage of the Camino de Santiago de Compostela in Spain. This Christian religious journey in honor of St. James the Apostle has been transforming lives for more than ten centuries. Pilgrims are privileged to visit more than 1,800 historic buildings. The Camino became the first European Cultural Itinerary in 1987 and was inscribed as a World Heritage site by UNESCO in 1993. Hostels along the way accommodate pilgrims overnight. And locals are helpful in steering the walkers toward the shells and markers which provide directions.
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Of course, these days not all of the walkers are Christian pilgrims. Everyone has their own individual reason for walking the Camino – many books, several movies, and videos provide examples. And the virtual trip is unique to our present time.
The Camino virtual for me was not so much a personal spiritual journey. It was a curiosity of why this journey continues to appeal to people all over the world. It was also an opportunity to engage with friends I couldn’t be with in person. I read all the information I could find, studied the maps, read about the architecture, followed the Facebook page of pilgrims around the world, and texted daily with my companions. I did not, however, spiritually connect with that faraway place as much as I did with the actual place I was walking.
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In spite of this difference, a virtual journey provided so much information, inspiration, and incentive to walk that I will continue on other paths – Cote D’Azur, the Appalachian Trail, Mt. Kilimanjaro, Hadrian’s Wall, Ring of Kerry. And always able to be in my own bed at night!
As time goes by my walking may slow down. But putting one foot in front of the other is still the order of the day. Walking is my continuous activity, goal, and passion.
Walking – a constant.
A goal, pleasure, and pattern.
One foot – the other.
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Our Amazing Feet
Pam Bach writes:
Each foot is made up of 26 bones, 30 joints and over 100 muscles, tendons, and ligaments, providing support, balance and mobility.
—Arthritis Foundation
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I started seriously paying attention to my feet ten years ago, before a trip to Greece celebrating our 25th anniversary. Marcia Alscher and John Hancock had invited us to join them, a life-time opportunity not to be missed. My feet had been giving me some trouble that I had self-diagnosed as early-stage plantar fasciitis. Concerned, I had bought some good shoes, since I knew we would be doing a lot of walking.
Whether in Athens, Mycenae, Delphi, Nafplion, or the mountain villages of Stemnitsa or Andritsina, our feet took us over streets and pathways created from fieldstone. This uneven terrain was so unlike the smooth indoor floors of the UC library or the concrete and blacktop pavements that my feet were used to. I had worried about walking in Greece, but over the course of two weeks my feet started feeling better and better. I realized that this experience was just the therapy they needed, exercising their joints, tendons, ligaments and muscles.
So lesson learned: Get off those smooth, hard, man-made surfaces and find some natural uneven earth to walk on. That’s what your feet evolved for, and they will thank you, believe me!
Taking a Walk with Mr. Shepard
Rick Sowash writes:
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Odell Shepard’s The Harvest of a Quiet Eye is a tapestry of essays and poems recounting a walking journey the author made through rural Connecticut in 1926. An engaging minor classic of the literature of walking, the book brims with good, sweet things: the joy of just walking, a deep affection for small towns and little rivers, appreciations of solitude alternating with vivid character sketches and an abundance of gently humorous, pleasantly self-indulgent digressions into many other subjects. Like a good hike, the book is imbued throughout with optimism and serene acceptance.
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I set to music several scenes from the book in my cantata “The Harvest of a Quiet Eye” for baritone, soprano, chorus and instruments. Chris Miller, who premiered the work ten years ago, has selected it to be the featured work in this year’s October Festival Chorus concert in the MAPC sanctuary at 4pm on Sunday, October 3.
Here are the lyrics for the two movements that follow the Prologue. The first expresses, I think, the feelings of excitement and expansiveness so characteristic of beginnings … beginnings of hikes, of choral cantatas, of all sorts of beginnings.
The second is a fugue in which the choral entrances overlap like hills rising “tier upon tier.” I tried to catch those tones of “blue and dimmer blue” in the music by using harmonies slightly tinged with a ‘Blues’ sound whenever the word “blue” is sung,
Below, you’ll find a link to a website where you can hear these two movements beautifully performed. Here are the lyrics for you to read before listening or to follow as you listen:
Baritone (the hiker / narrator): I came to a road running northward, and the borders were woven with thickets of birches and maples. The yellowing leaves were atwinkle in the wind and the lane was a vista of dazzle and shine.
Chorus: Here were old stone walls running through woodland, and old apple orchards recaptured by forest.
Baritone and chorus: A mile more and the lyric beauty of my road was changed into grandeur.
Chorus: The hills to the north and west rose tier above tier in tones of blue and dimmer blue to the far horizon.
Here’s a wonderful photo by my friend Kirk Kassner, showing the Appalachian mountains of northwest Connecticut, rising “tier above tier in tones of blue and dimmer blue to the far horizon."
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To hear “I came to a road running northward” followed by “The hills to the north and west,” movements 2 and 3 from my cantata "The Harvest of a Quiet Eye," by the marvelously expressive baritone Bradford Gleim — his voice is perfect for this music! — and the Harvard-Radcliffe Community Chorus, with Edward Elwyn Jones conducting, click here:
To see a PDF of the score, click here:
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Thanks to all our contributors for this issue! If you’d like to write for us, please contact your faithful editors, Julie Malkin ([email protected]) and John Tallmadge ([email protected]).
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